November 28, 2017

KIDSBUZZ: Click here to discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.

Dear Reader,

When I asked today's guest author, Hilary Bonner, to tell me about herself, here's what she said...

Hilary Bonner. About me!

Hilary Bonner writes psychological thrillers, now featuring geeky series detective DI David Vogel, whose hobbies are compiling crosswords and playing a lot of backgammon. As does Hilary! Her latest novel, Deadly Dance begins with what appears to be a tragic but not unfamiliar scenario, when the body of a schoolgirl is found in a red light district and family members become the main suspects. It turns into something quite else, both highly disturbing and shocking. Hilary lives, with her wife and their dog, in the West of England; in a Georgian cottage overlooking the rolling Blackdown Hills.

Best of all, Hilary is excited about responding to readers (I love it when authors want to correspond), so please do drop her a line, and when you do, you'll also be entered in her book giveaway. Five readers will win digital copies of her newest release, Deadly Dance. Email: hilary@hilarybonner.co.uk

I don't wish to appear boastful, but if there were an award for the displacement activities of novelists, I would expect to win it.

I am starting a new book. My dog Coco tops my displacement list as usual; walking, bathing and brushing her, and throwing ball. The garden is a constant distraction, as is playing backgammon online and cricket--that very English game which can take five whole days.

This week I caught myself day-dreaming about my previous life as show-business editor of a succession of British newspapers, and came up with a displacement activity promising diversion for weeks on end.

For the first time in years I pulled out an old cuttings book, from the London based Mail on Sunday, and was reminded of the days when I travelled the world meeting the biggest stars in the entertainments industry.

Giants of Hollywood who allowed me to interview them, and often to visit their homes, include the legendary Bette Davis and James Stewart, Kirk and Michael Douglas, Charlton Heston, Elizabeth Taylor, Shirley MacLaine, Lisa Minelli, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Clint Eastwood, and Ryan O'Neil. Sylvester Stallone told me I was tough, and Robert Mitcham related stories of off-screen activities no star would ever nowadays reveal to a journalist!

British greats include Peter O'Toole, Peter Sellers, David Niven, Alec Guinness, and Julie Walters. I played backgammon on several James Bond sets with Roger Moore. John Gielgud once infuriated his director by walking straight into shot on a film set in order to pose for a picture for my photographer. And yes, I went drinking with Oliver Reed. All part of the rite of passage.

From ballet, I interviewed probably the greatest of them all, Nureyev. In opera, I very nearly blew what turned out to be a fabulous interview with Luciano Pavarotti, when, after I'd cheekily approached him following a performance in Miami, he called from his hotel room to ask if I would like to come up and see him. I thought it was my photographer having a joke!

My list of interviewees from that period reads like an extract from Who's Who. Yet at the time I took it entirely for granted. Only now do I realise how privileged I was.

Some became friends, particularly Avenger Patrick Macnee, and Lois Maxwell, James Bond's longest serving Miss Moneypenny. But there is one who became most important of all to me: Amanda Barrie, star of the British soap opera Coronation Street and Cleo in Carry On Cleo. Three years ago we were married.

--Hilary Bonner

Email: hilary@hilarybonner.co.uk Say hello, Hilary will reply and you'll be entered in the drawing for one of five digital copies of her book Deadly Dance.

November 27, 2017

KIDSBUZZ: Click here to discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.

Dear Reader,

I'm on vacation this week. Bailey, my granddaughter, is visiting which means there will be a lot of shopping going on. Yes, last time Bailey visited, Grandpa and Granddaughter shopped until they dropped, while I stayed home and baked cookies. Grandpa and Granddaughter, it was a special time together I bet Bailey will never forget...

Today's column is an Honorable Mention choice from this year's Write a DearReader Contest. Congratulations to Jordan Jankus who writes...

My Life In Pseudo-Science

I have always been fascinated with how things are made and how they work. When I was about five or six, I remember fixing a music box on my friend's doll crib and afterward it played a lullaby that had long been missing. My playmate thought I my skills were truly heroic.

When I was home sick (or pseudo-sick), I made myself a thinking box--circuits closed and a bulb went off when you chose a correct answer on a paper overlay. The bolts and nuts that held the wires in place were from my Erector set. That erector set took on so many forms--a Ferris wheel, a metal car, a windmill. It had an electric motor with a lever sticking up from it that allowed you to change gears. Endless hours on the floor playing with it. Years later, I borrowed several Erector girders, bolted them together and made a support for a cold air intake for my father's '59 Pontiac Bonneville.

The problem with my interest in science is that I don't have much formal training in the physical sciences, so I sort of learned as I took things apart. But there are dangerous consequences, such as the time I decided to tweak the color settings in the back of the chassis on our Color TV and saw smoke pouring out.

I was an avid audio recorder and loved to tape radio programs and edit them. Part of this process was to make sure that you were starting with pristine tape for a recording and to ensure this, you used an electric degausser, a powerful magnet, to wipe the tape. One Saturday, I went into the city with my parents and some magazines I had piled up next to the degausser must have slid over, turning the degausser on. When we got home that night, there was such a strong smell of ozone and burning in the house. My father couldn't find the source, but I did. I kept it a secret that the degausser has nearly burnt a hole through the wooden table on which it rested. I don't think they ever found out and I don't remember how I hid the blackened wood.

Then there was the time when I was at our summer home on the North shore of Long Island. I had built a Remco crystal radio and in order to get the best reception, I stretched a long, thin wire across the length of our property. That afternoon, my mother came out to take the laundry off the clothesline and walked into the invisible wire, nearly garroting herself. But I did get in a strong signal from Bridgeport, CT--some song of Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs.

I once tried to fix a table lamp, but after plugging it in, I soon found myself standing in front of my parents, a dazed look on my face while the skin on my fingers bubbled.

In fourth grade, I had a passion for dinosaurs and was firmly convinced that there had been a land bridge between Greenland and Europe and spent many hours dreaming of assembling an expedition to prove this theory. One Saturday afternoon, I was in our backyard and was practicing my paleontological skills, digging away, when a next-door neighbor asked me what was I doing. Can you rationally say that you're looking for the remains of a Stegosaurus? Or do you just confess to aimlessly playing in the dirt.

Just think what might have happened if I combined this curiosity with scientific knowledge! Nah--that was too hard. Easier just to use your gut and cross your fingers.

November 24, 2017

AUTHORBUZZ: Click here to discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.

Dear Reader,

Featuring today's column for the Thanksgiving holiday, has become a tradition. It's the story of one of those unforgettable, life-changing moments, and every year when I set the table for holiday dinners I think of him...

It was obvious he didn't want to be in my kitchen. He had been kicked out of every public and private school and home schooling was a last resort for his parents. I'm sure his folks were jumping for joy, and would have gladly paid double the price when they saw my announcement: 6-Week Cooking Class for Homeschoolers, because it would give them a three hour break during the day.

Ryan was tough looking, the kind of kid that would make you cross over to the other side of the street if you were out for a leisurely stroll. Ragged hair that always looked like it needed to be washed, baggy clothes and big oversized, steel-toed, curb-stomping boots. In his mind, I'm sure he was lookin' cool.

Eight, fifth grade students enrolled in my class, including Ryan. On our first day, when we did introductions, I asked each kid to tell me what they hoped to learn. Tough kid's response, "My parents made me come here, sounds stupid to me."

Okay, I could work with that. Maybe?

But Ryan would never give me an inch--it would have been giving in to the establishment to actually enjoy himself, even when he was eating a cream puff. "Well, what do you think? Do you like them?" I was hoping the fluffy white filling might force one crummy smile from him, but no...he was one tough cookie. Nevertheless, I genuinely liked the kid. I respected his pigheadedness. It reminded me of myself when I was his age.

Each student had kitchen assignments, but I didn't press Ryan to do much of anything, except I did enforce a "No Smoking" rule during the three hour class period. But I'd still catch him smoking outside when we'd take a break. I spoke to his parents about it, but they just shrugged their shoulders: "What can you do?"

Ryan wasn't disrupting the class and the other kids accepted his behavior for what it was--so I figured no real harm done. Tough boy would try to follow a recipe every now and then, but he moved so slowly--to emphasize his disgust in being there--that by the time he'd get some cookie batter mixed up we were out of time.

The finale of the six week cooking class was to prepare a holiday buffet for the kids' parents. Thanksgiving was only a couple of weeks away, so we decided to do a half-Thanksgiving, half-Christmas theme with the table decorations. All of the kids showed up for class early on the big day, even Ryan, which surprised me, because I wasn't sure he was going to show up at all, so I hadn't given him an assignment.

"Here, these are for the table," Ryan said, his eyes looking away from me, "I made them last night." And he handed me two wooden snowmen, two Christmas trees and a Pilgrim and Indian.

I was stunned, they were adorable. He'd hand carved and painted them, on all sides, so no matter where they sat on the buffet table you'd be able to see the detail of his work. You never know about people. I thought I was going to cry, but I could tell he didn't want me to make too big of a deal about it. His parents were as shocked as I'd been, when I pointed out what their son had made.

Two wooden Christmas trees, two snowmen, and an Indian and Pilgrim, sit on the shelf of my china closet, but every year on Thanksgiving and Christmas, I take them down, and put them in the center of my table and of course, I retell the story of the boy who made them for me.

November 23, 2017

AUTHORBUZZ: Click here to discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.

Dear Reader,

Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who live in the United States. My family and I are having a big turkey dinner today.

I live in Florida and it's warm here in November, so you'd think our family would be outdoors, enjoying the weather after the big meal. But everybody is hooked on BINGO. I call the numbers and they win the cool prizes. And then we take naps. Don't forget to eat an extra piece of pie, with whipped cream of course, the celebration only happens once a year.

Thanks for reading with me. It is truly a blessing for me to be able to read with friends like you every day.

November 22, 2017

AUTHORBUZZ: Click here to discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.

Dear Reader,

Turkey, turkey, gobble, gobble--if your Thanksgiving dinner guests don't gobble down all of your turkey, I have the perfect recipe for your leftovers. It's become a tradition, the Friday after Thanksgiving is my day to make turkey pies.

My quick and easy recipe for Leftover Turkey Pies.

Line a pie pan with ready-made crust (or make it from scratch), and fill it two-thirds of the way with cut-up leftover turkey. Dice a fresh onion, add vegetables (a package of frozen, or leftover fresh veggies from the relish tray). Pour any leftover gravy on top. If Uncle Fred polished off the gravy, open a can of turkey or chicken gravy. I prefer chicken because it has more flavor. Season with pepper. Add top crust.

Archeologist Nick Randall searches for the lost city of Vilcabamba. Hidden deep in the Amazon, he believes it holds proof that his controversial theories are true. When he disappears, his daughter Samantha must set aside her own career to search for him. But someone else seeks him as well. Francis Dumond, a shadowy man with unlimited resources, will stop at nothing to find him first.

Go to AUTHORBUZZ click on THE RUINS to read more and to email author Robert Rapoza, you'll get a reply.

* This month's Penguin Classics book is THE RETURN OF THE SOLDIER, by Rebecca West. Start reading now and don't forget to enter the drawing for your chance to win a Penguin tote bag.

November 21, 2017

AUTHORBUZZ: Click here to discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.

Dear Reader,

Today's guest author, AnnaMarie McHargue, brings a refreshing, and much needed message for me to tuck away in my heart.

AnnaMarie McHargue has been an editor for more than 30 years and is the author of People Are Good: 100 True Stories to Restore Your Faith in Humanity. She is the CEO/Executive Editor of Words With Sisters and is excited to share her first book with a reading public who appreciates beautiful words and stories.

Anna can be reached at: anna@wordswithsisters.com. She is giving away five copies of People Are Good: 100 True Stories to Restore Your Faith in Humanity.

Please welcome author AnnaMarie McHargue...

Fall Love

Other than the 15 stuffed leaf bags on the street, there is absolutely no proof that our family of five did nothing but rake yesterday. Everywhere I look this morning are new layers of harvest colored maple and aspen leaves covering my freshly raked grass. My kids are shocked and my husband is irritated. But me? I just feel happy. Many of us look forward to the Christmas holiday season. We have pageants and mistletoe, gift wrapping, and visits from friends. It's lovely to be sure. But my joy comes in heaps just as fall makes her appearance. My husband jokes that my happy-meter jumps 10 points as the weather starts to turn.

To him I say, what's not to love? I have time to give my home a fresh cleaning once the kids head back to school, and for a moment at least, some of the clutter disappears. Wet towels, flip flops, and sunscreen are replaced with scarves and gloves and the family falls back into a happy routine of soccer practice and football Friday nights. Couple that with crock pot comfort meals, warm chai lattes and a house decorated in orange, and I can't help but find myself a bit on the cheery side. People joke that I should capture some of that joy into a bottle of Autumn Happiness so that I can sprinkle it throughout the seasons when things take a turn and we are struck with the inevitable stresses the year offers up. Haven't quite figured out how to do that, so last year I dreamed up a new plan--to focus on the small acts of kindness offered up by others that make a big difference either to me or to my friends and family. I've discovered that those acts are everywhere and happen all of time. My daughter's bus driver waited with her when she saw I wasn't yet at the bus stop to meet her; a colleague ran across town to deliver a report that my husband accidentally left in a meeting; my neighbor stayed on the phone until my son felt comfortable with a math problem.

Such little effort helped my family so much, but easily could have gone unnoticed or unappreciated. By focusing on the good, everything changes--your attitude, your countenance, your day, your life. I love the idea of spreading my Autumn Happiness to every day of the year.

Cass, a singularly reliable wife and mother has a blissful marriage--until she begins to suspect that her husband may be trying to kill her. But when she takes action to save herself and her children, no one believes her. A suspenseful thriller and a cautionary tale, to promote discussion and to keep you riveted.

Go to AUTHORBUZZ click on POISON to read more and to email author Galt Niederhoffer, you'll get a reply.

* This month's Penguin Classics book is THE RETURN OF THE SOLDIER, by Rebecca West. Start reading now and don't forget to enter the drawing for your chance to win a Penguin tote bag.

November 20, 2017

AUTHORBUZZ: Click here to discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.

Dear Reader,

Today I'm sharing another Honorable Mention column from this year's writing contest. Congratulations to Karin DeLaurentis. There are many soul searching takeaways from reading Karin's column. For me, I remind myself that forgiveness doesn't need to be deserved, because forgiveness is really for the forgiver. Thanks so much Karin for entering this year's Write a DearReader Contest...

My dad left when we girls were very young, and mom was pregnant with my brother. He subsequently remarried two times; he was a poor husband and a hard father--strict and sometimes unkind. During my childhood we had a distant and uneasy relationship with him; but as an adult I had managed to forge a fragile rapport with him, not exactly close and loving, but sufficient.

When my brother died young, Dad took it very hard. After that, he made an effort with us. He reached out to my sisters and I and cobbled together a wobbly relationship; we talked on the phone; we saw him on holidays. When he died, I felt, if not grief-stricken, at least thankful that I could stand by his grave with a restful heart.

What I was not prepared for was what we experienced at the funeral.

My father seemed to have mellowed over the years, but what I could not (or did not bother) to see was that he was not the man I thought I knew. I always had a certain image of Dad--not a great father, not a great husband, harsh with us when we were little, distant in our older years. I always felt like he was this sad old guy living out his days in his little town, in his little house, all alone with his regrets.

But the people we talked at the funeral home, the people from his town, painted a much different picture. Imagine our surprise when people said things to us like "he was my idol" or "he was my hero" or "he was the nicest guy I ever knew". One girl said "he changed my life"--an older lady told us he fixed her garage roof and didn't charge her a dime...her widowed daughter said he would come anytime of the day or night to do repairs for her. The local restaurant loved him. The flower shop said he would buy a single rose or a couple of carnations and take them with him. They never knew what he did with them--gave them away to people to cheer them up, maybe. Another fellow said when he moved to town to start a business, Dad befriended him and his family and helped him when no one else bothered--he became a grandfather to their children. Many people said he came to their house for dinner or spent holidays with them. At his church, he volunteered with a program that helped kids get into college. The town planted a tree in his honor.

I was amazed and emotionally overwhelmed hearing these stories. For the first time in my life, I was proud to call him my dad. It was truly a gift. All the bad memories I had of him could now be overshadowed by good ones. We used to worry about him being lonely. I guess we were worried for no reason. Like George Bailey, he was the richest man in town.

And what did I learn? That it's never too late for someone to change. Never assume that the person you think someone is, is the person they will always be--don't pigeon-hole him and leave him there with no hope of redemption. It's unfair. I didn't try hard enough to truly know my father. Maybe he didn't try hard enough with me, either. But sometimes the people you love the most are the people that are hardest to touch. It was easier for him to reach out to the people of his town rather than his kids--we could hurt him so readily. I could have given him the gift of letting him show me who he really was.

What my dad did in his older years made up for the mistakes he made when he was younger. It is possible, at any age, to become your finest self.

Cass, a singularly reliable wife and mother has a blissful marriage--until she begins to suspect that her husband may be tryingto kill her. But when she takes action to save herself and her children, no one believes her. A suspenseful thriller and acautionary tale, to promote discussion and to keep you riveted.

Go to AUTHORBUZZ click on POISON to read more and to email author Galt Niederhoffer, you'll get a reply.

* This month's Penguin Classics book is THE RETURN OF THE SOLDIER, by Rebecca West. Start reading now and don't forget to enter the drawing for your chance to win a Penguin tote bag.

November 17, 2017

AUTHORBUZZ: Click here to discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.

Dear Reader,

Congratulations to June Venable, one of this year's Write a DearReader Honorable Mention winners. Join June on her walk down memory lane. (There was one in the small town I grew up in. I bet there was one in your town, too.) ...

Saturdays At The Century

Waking up on Saturdays was a pure delight in my childhood. I knew I'd be spending the morning with some of my favorite people--Gene, Roy and Dale.

I would hop out of bed, dress and call my brother. We'd bolt down our Corn Flakes and head for the Century Theater. In our town, the little movie house opened on Saturday mornings just for kids and for the price of a dime.

Gene was Gene Autry, who sat astride his trusty steed, Champion. Roy Rogers trotted off into the sunset on Trigger, strumming his guitar and singing to Dale Evans, the pretty lady who rode her gentle horse, Buttermilk. There were many others, but these three felt like next door neighbors.

They were the good guys, those larger-than-life cowboys who fought evil, chased the bad men, saved the ranch and sometimes kissed the girls. This last gesture caused much dismay among the boys and earned our heroes a few loud "boos." Other than that, those champions of righteousness were greeted with loud cheers.

Once inside, we headed for the candy counter. Nickels were clutched in small fists as agonizing decisions were made. What treat would see us through the main feature, the serial, the cartoons, the coming attractions and the newsreel? The surest bet was a Holloway Sucker. That delicious concoction might well last through a double feature.

Those nickels and dimes, hard-earned, came from the efforts of mothers and fathers to give their children a bit of pleasure away from the ills of the Depression. While we didn't fully understand its meaning, we witnessed the worry on the faces of our parents each day.

When the tooth-decaying decisions had been made, we lined up behind a frayed gold rope until an usher, resplendent in his military-like uniform, unhooked the barrier and jumped aside to avoid being trampled as we raced for the best seats.

Chatter filled the theater until the lights dimmed, the red velvet curtain swept back and the magic began. For the next few hours, our eyes glued to the screen, we laughed at Froggy, Gene's sidekick, sang with Roy and the Sons of the Pioneers, and clapped when the varmints in the black hats were rounded up.

An added attraction after the movie was a drawing each month for a prize. Our ticket stubs were torn and one half dropped in a large box. Never having won anything, I scarcely paid attention to the number being called one Saturday until it was repeated. I glanced at my half of the ticket. It was my number! Running up to the stage, I collected a certificate from the dress shop next door. Hurrying out and dragging my protesting little brother, I presented the certificate and eventually chose a nifty little number that was reversible--pink with white dots on one side, white with pink dots on the other.

Racing home with my treasure clutched in both arms, I couldn't wait to show my grandmother. However, I immediately assured her it wasn't nearly as pretty as the dresses she made for me on her old treadle sewing machine..

To celebrate, my grandmother and I decided on--what else--a movie. We collected our empty milk bottles and with our deposits returned, we set out the following Sunday after church. I felt like a movie star myself in my new outfit.

I don't recall what we saw that day but when it was over and we stepped out into the bright winter sunshine, we heard loud voices on the corner. Walking closer, we saw newsboys excitedly waving their papers. Then their words became clear: Extra! Extra! Read all about it. Pearl Harbor Bombed.

November 16, 2017

AUTHORBUZZ: Click here to discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.

Dear Reader,

Teresa Chandler, one of this year's Honorable Mention winners takes us center stage today. Away we go under The Big Top! Congratulations Teresa...

When I was 22 I tried to run away and join the circus!

I auditioned as a clown for Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus. It was a thrill, being in the center ring under the Big Top in the presence of some of the world's greatest clowns. I passed the standard clown skill set: physical pratfalls from various heights and positions, juggling, etc. and was invited to do a brief performance of my own act as my clown character, Bebop.

I didn't get the job. They said 22 was too old to be molded into a proper circus clown.

So. I didn't join the circus. But the skills of working as a clown have served me well. Public speaking is reported as the #1 fear. It is a given that we are all bound to make mistakes and occasionally play the fool so, the more we embrace that inevitability, the easier it will be. I can promise you that being willing to make a fool of oneself is enormously freeing.

Being a clown requires one to fully embrace your clown persona--to put it bluntly, it means that things I would never think of doing, Bebop does without thinking twice. Clowns follow their foolishly brave open hearts.

There is an age-appropriate range with children for even the sweetest of clowns. Too young and they are terrified--a bit older and they just want to break you. One fateful day, working a children's birthday party, I learned that boys on either side of five years old are in the prime range of, "Come on! Let's kick the clown and see if its arms will come off!"

Poor, unsuspecting, Bebop. I showed up at the party with my vintage clownish suitcase full of magic and delightful tricks and was led to the "stage"--a small table in the yard in front of 30 pint-sized chairs. Straining to be heard over the wild shrieks of boys doing some kind of battle with rubber swords the adults called out, "The Clown is here! The Clown is here! Come get your cake and take a seat!"

A sea of wild-eyed boys shoveled cake and ice cream into their mouths and laughed and jostled each other while I did the first set of my magic show. It was short. Short sets are best for 5-year-olds. Some of them were having fun but as the chocolate-smeared plates dropped to the ground around the chairs, the sugar kicked in. The birthday boy got out of his chair to claim a balloon animal. He took it from my hand and then with a big grin, reared back and kicked me in the shin. That's all it took. Suddenly, I was like a chicken in a pack of hyenas--except I was fighting them off with balloon animals. The adults seemed to think it all very funny and part of the act but as soon as the little demons ran off to get their rubber swords I abandoned my magic suitcase and made a beeline into the house and the safety of the bathroom.

I sat on the toilet, my heart thudding in my chest, my head in my hands and my clown pants down around my clown shoes. To my right was the door back to the party. To my left, the bathroom window was cracked open and I could see my little blue Volkswagen beetle sitting at the curb. I tapped my big red feet and thought long and hard for at least two or three minutes and then I did what any sane clown would do. I pulled up my pants, unlocked the bathroom door and went foot first out the bathroom window. I drove away in my clown car and never looked back.

November 15, 2017

Reflecting on the journey of Strangers in Budapest, Jessica Keener (today's guest author) says, "It's been a long pregnancy, I started this novel ten years ago."

Well, it was definitely worth the journey, Strangers in Budapest was chosen for several Best New Books lists: RealSimple.com, Chicago Review of books, and Indie Next pick for December.

Like the character in her new novel, Strangers In Budapest, Jessica lived in Budapest in the 1990s. She now lives with her husband in Boston and is a writing consultant for Grub Street.

Celebrate an exciting new release (you're going to love it), enter the giveaway for Strangers In Budapest. And please be sure to say hello to Jessica. She loves to hear from readers. She's been a long time visitor to the book club: Jessicakeener1@gmail.com

Welcome to the book club Jessica Keener...

Thank you, Suzanne, for having me as a guest. I have adored your column for more than ten years, the way you write to the heart of things.

As I was searching my own heart for something to share here, I started thinking about coincidences. Are things that appear to be random the result of unconscious intention, or the heart calling out? Here's an example of what I mean. I'm eager to hear what readers think.

Back in 1986, I was living with my husband in Miami, FL. We were newlyweds. My husband was traveling a lot because of his job. During the day, I didn't mind. But, at night, if he was away, my deeper worries surfaced and played havoc with my sleep. My main problem was fear. I was afraid someone would break into our Spanish style home, which had more windows than solid walls. So, my husband encouraged me to get a dog. "A dog will protect you."

I resisted. Mightily. Dogs needed to be walked and fed, cleaned and cared for. And my childhood associations of family pets were grim. One dog was returned to the pound for misbehaving, another died tragically when he slipped off the side of our back stoop and was strangled by his own leash.

Then, one Sunday morning in Miami, a friend stopped by for coffee. He was a dog lover and had just read a disturbing story in the newspaper about puppy mills, over-population of dogs, and the dark, hidden business of euthanizing them. My mind filled with images of the holocaust. "Let's take a walk," I said.

Outside, it was a beautiful spring day. Across the street, my very pregnant neighbor was holding a red leash at the end of which was a furry white ball of a puppy.

"Want a dog?" She called to me. "I can't keep her. I'm taking her back today."

She explained that training a puppy was too much work with a baby on the way. I knelt down. The puppy was all over me in an instant, licking my face.

"I'll take her."

We named her Argentina. She was smart--uncanny in her range of human-like expressions and understanding of language. (We had to spell in front of her.) For fifteen years, our beautiful white and black English setter gave us--and our son, who came seven years later--a lifetime of affection, warmth, civility, and inexhaustible love. I often wonder about that confluence of things on that Sunday morning--was it fate or intention or readiness that led me to finally say 'yes'?